


Kamukura

by zuzuzukas_dream



Category: Danganronpa, Super Danganronpa 2
Genre: Strangulation, descriptions/discussions of suicide, hajime addresses his sense of self, i had dreams where hajime was turned into izuru via simulations as well as surgery, i refuse to acknowledge danganronpa 3's version of events yet again, uh thats it i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzuzukas_dream/pseuds/zuzuzukas_dream
Summary: who should exist? who should be erased?





	Kamukura

**Author's Note:**

> hi you can take this to be an AU or a canonverse fic, its really not that important to me. i felt sad and wanted to write about this since i had some good imagery but i lost steam toward the end. its got a lot of depression-related themes, a lot of hajime seeing himself as useless, a barrier toward his own dreams.
> 
> see if you can spot matsuda (ive tried to make it kind of clear who he is, sorry) in dr/0 (SPOILERS) he says he never knew izuru but it isnt said that he never knew....... hajime

The room. The blocks. The fear.

White walls and a dampness where his hair covers his temples.

Quiet.

Coming to is something Hajime has begun to loathe. The nausea of it - the swelling, the buried pulsating of his ears, the sickness that he never gets used to. They said he would, and then they said that was a miscalculation. He now imagines that they lied.

The task laid before him is to test the new adjustments. One would imagine it's simple, but as you work into it, like a tongue twister, it ties you up, heats you up, spits you back out. That helpless feeling that Hajime has sought to destroy comes back up his throat. The nausea resurfaces with it.

It is how it has been up until now. Tetris, maybe. However, this time there are more pieces - smaller, more intricate - and he has less moves with which to achieve the perfect cube. One false placement, or one quivering hand, and the delicate work will have all been for nothing.

Even if he has more than enough time to examine every single piece in detail - to set them aside in order - it is the act of putting the right combination into a visual through his mind's eye that is truly the part that tests him.

"Adaptability," they've said. The ability for the brain to make up for its previous failures and change how it views seemingly difficult or unnecessary problems. To analyse every detail. To pick apart, and put together, and to form something entirely approachable. To change. And, quickly.

That is what Hajime is supposed to do. All the time in the world is far too much time to solve a problem like this under the watchful eye of the Project managers. No - there would certainly be punishments if he were to lag behind like that. So, as the nausea clears, his still-shaking hands begin picking up the pieces, and as the nausea clears, he uses the eyes that they have dug behind.

"Kamukura." An intrusive voice from above. Hajime, although used to it, startles a little. Then, he returns to running his fingers along the tiny bricks. "You have ten minutes if you are to succeed in this Session. There are fifty blocks before you."

Something stirs in him. Negative, in fact loathsome, beneath his own discipline. He refuses to dwell on the reminder of information he already knows, and his subconscious prepares for whatever distraction they will put before him today. The Dilemma. He prays his discipline will quell that, too.

It is wise to start with at least one outer line.

To work your way toward the centre is a strategy used not only in tasks such as this. Guidelines are often required before an artist fills the empty space with colour or detail. Nationalists take control of the disillusioned population before preying upon the government itself. Video games allow you to take down grunts before you are able to take down the final boss. And here, Hajime's slender, bronze hands work to organise white blocks from the bottom left corner.

The colour of the blocks is another trick. Hajime's earlier trials allowed him to realise that white, on a white desk, with bright, white lights, against a white full-body suit, was indeed to confuse him. This is why he must use his sense of touch. Kirigiri had praised him for his quick switch of strategy: abandoning the eyes, and putting faith in the other parts of himself better equipped to face the situation. Adaptability.

And, he had been glad to hear such compliments. In fact, thrilled.

He continues with his white blocks in his white room.

The Dilemma had to be generalised for the first trial as to avoid creating a mental block in his mind. Ten blocks and fifteen minutes. A man being robbed. Hajime hadn't managed to finish. Since then, however, and since the punishment, they became easier to ignore. A boy being robbed. A boy who, Hajime had to remind himself, was only part of the simulation. His mother, then, whom Hajime managed to ignore despite the tears and the trembling. Constant and alternating white noise. Constant and alternating light. A child pleading for his help.

One of the managers had said, "You must imagine that those blocks are what will save those people." Hajime had nodded. "If you abandon that for your emotions, then you only cause more damage to them."

And so, he has become more equipped to face them. The skills he learns in this white room are a canvas for a whole eternity of other abilities. Everyday, he peers through the glass at the colours of the outside world. The talents that walk by, beneath his little ward in the Eastern block. He asks his doctor to name them. His doctor will tell him everything bar his own name.

Twenty-four bricks. Like the legs of spiders, like the hands of Gods, his fingers run along the shape and memorise them. His system involves placing them in perfect order around the slow-forming tower in the middle. This pattern allows him to quickly relocate matching pieces that he requires. Hajime is proud of the skills he has taught himself. The lengths his brain may now stretch to.

He is proud.

It is on the twenty-seventh that the Dilemma spawns. Hajime imagines it is at minute five, because the halfway mark being drawn in with a wall he must break through motivates him to press through it. "I've done this much. I can do it double." The psych- and neurologists who worked on this program put much thought into such details.

Hajime doesn't look up at the shapes before him. It is another visual Dilemma, and he wonders if it will be moral or aggressive. Aggressive forms will seek to turn back progress, requiring him to think quickly about how to defend his achievements thus far. The warning that they will arrive soon plays in his mind.

"Hey," says his own voice. He does not say it.

Eyes flickering up, he loses his focus. An instant loss - the concentration built up until now is far harder to regain. A pit in his stomach opens up, and as though it splits the world into, his insides churn through it.

Before him, in the split second of him impulsively meeting its eyes, is a pixelated version of himself. The heat around his ears and eyes begins to swell. They're playing on the familiarity of mirrors, and how strange it is to see yourself moving when you are not moving. A drunken feeling. Hajime calculates their mindset, losing time on his own endeavour.

Unable to stop himself from assigning numbers to the bricks, he searches once more across number fourteen. He swears that this was suitable to match with three. The current blocks able to match with on level one - three, twelve, twenty-three, twenty-seven and forty. It had to be three. He remembers a single syllable.

A single syllable. "Hey." The other self has spoken again, and a buzz just at the base of his palms frustrates the movement of his fingers. They want to clench, and so they do.

The other Hajime isn't dressed like him. The familiarity of a creased shirt - too small around the shoulders - as well as a swamp green tie and trousers has his brain flickering from the area at hand. It isn't suited to the white environment. He feels sickened by the collision of both of his worlds.

Up until now, they had felt separate. That had felt safe. He was not living in both at once.

They're getting him.

And, as he returns to identifying blocks, they jab into him once more.

The clone approaches - animated, emotional, personal - and speaks again. "Hajime," he says, and white noise makes his movements turn to an overwhelming static. "Why're you doing this? What's in it for me? Have you thought about that?"

Why does his voice sound like that? The block in his hands. Forty. No. He was matching with forty. Thirty-six was supposed to go there. On its side--

"Hajime. I'm scared."

Stop using my name. His mind adds, on its own, as though enough - Kamukura. Forty and thirty-six are perfect pairs. He identifies the next indents on them, attempting to break through on the bottom layer. Kamukura is his title.

His - its - hands - you'll fail if you address it as a person -- its hands touch the desk. They invade his space. One arm loops around, cautious, to tug gently on the structure and pull it toward him. Defensive manoeuvres.

It is tempting to cover his ears, and in fact he almost does, when this Hajime next speaks. Closer, now, and indeed in the same tone - yes, no matter how much he refuses to address its absolute terror - he says, "Please, stop." Stop. A lump has formed in his throat. "I'm scared."

His own panic causes him a false move. The tip of his finger runs along the line between four and fifty, and he recognises a small gap. They do not fit perfectly. The shaking of his hands has yet to register truly.

All he has to do is ignore. The face before him, its close proximity, is only a simulation. It is supposed to scare him. Stop him. Anger him. Evoke any emotion from him. Cause him to fail, and backtrack, and disappoint, always disappoint, always with the same uselessness that he's so susceptible to.

And, it does. A scream and a swiping arm. His progress, clawed across the table. Scattered across the room. The tiny bricks pull apart as though they never were together to begin with - as though they never mattered, as though they don't matter - and at last, the cracks in his concentration spread. A flatline screeches in his head, as though glass has shattered before him.

His precious progress, gone.

His reaction: rage.

"You aren't listening!" screams, _cries_ , his reflection. This self that he abhors. "You're just-- with your stupid blocks, your stupid, stupid blocks! I don't care about blocks!" Their breaths come out laboured - one from the rawness of his throat, and one from seething hatred. "Wake up, Hajime!"

The room's light distorts before him. Green spots and TV static, as though he's been bitten, now submitting to sickness. His precious, precious progress litters the floor, and as he sways, he kicks a piece with his heel.

His eyes finally connect with Hajime. The simulation's expression does not change as a human's would. There is no flicker of the eyes. No slack or tighten of the jaw. This boy simply stands and stares, like the kind of disjointed standing animation a character has in a game. His eyes remain wide. His posture, square.

There may only be a few minutes left. Three, at most. One, at least. Hajime - the true Hajime - takes a step back, and feels the lump in his throat press him closer to tears.

"I'm-- I'm ready to leave now," he says. "I lost. I'm sorry." There is a weakness in his voice so unmistakable that he feels he could vomit then and there. Its pathetic nature swells and stings like an abscess, and his hands come over his eyes, expectant that the room will cease to exist.

"I'm sorry," he says again. Fearful. What comes next - the darkness, the wires, the masked faces - he isn't sure if he can face it.

Doesn't want to. Begs for it to go.

His lips tremble, eyes squeezing against the void where those memories are as if to deter them from flashing before his eyes. "Please let me go," he whispers.

He's willing to wait. The situation is simple enough: he must leave the room and face his fate. He failed. There is no need to address what that thing said to him, or how easily it located his weakness and exploited it. Sense of self is the new hill to overcome, and that is what Dilemmas are supposed to reveal. They have done their job, and he has failed at his, and now adjustments must be made to help him cope with it.

Adjustment. Punishment. The fear. Black binds over his arms.

"You're just being childish. You signed up for this. It's your fault."

Light floods his eyes, crinkled against it, and pools around the shape of his reflection. The simulation has yet to end, and a sharp breath of bitterness leaves him.

"Get out!" he shrieks at his reflection. Arms extend, impulsive and hyperactive, to shove into him. The collision is welcome to his senses. "Just-- get out! Stop it! I don't want to hear it!"

Hajime retaliates. Shoves him back.

They programmed him like this, didn't they?

Cruel.

And so, there are hands at Hajime's neck. The real boy feels his finger tips dig into the delicate bones of his own throat. Again, there is a distinct lack of a reaction from him - they didn't program in this level of response. That isn't so important to him, though. It isn't important at all.

It's strange, to strangle yourself. If you were to try on your literal self, you would be unlikely to get very far. The body's survival instincts always kick in, and unless you somehow manage to do damage to the important parts of your neck, it isn't a very efficient way of suicide. That is precisely why hanging is a better route to asphyxiation. But, although Hajime has strangled himself, or been strangled, in his own rather horrifying nightmares, there has never been an opportunity to squeeze the life out of his own face.

Useless. Absolutely useless. Still getting in the way of his progress.

This technology will always continue to surprise him with its impressive capabilities. There is always something incredible to immerse himself with. His doctor has described to him, in great detail, just what this system can do - but, never before has he been able to use it for his own selfish, emotional gains.

Still getting in the way of his dreams.

This technology alone outdoes anything Hajime is capable of. It is immersive. It is indulgent. It is the eyes of a deer in the face of headlights. Empty, and without true understanding. The light casts fear into them, but they don't really know what's coming.

He doesn't, does he? They didn't program him to die. They wouldn't have.

"You are to let go of the Dilemma," that polite, intrusive voice tells him, "and you are to await the end of this Session. That is an order."

His nails press in harder. They won't let him leave.

"Did you program him to die?" he asks. It is only now that the streaks of tears down his face make themselves known. Fresh ones easily flood from his eyes.

There is a second of silence, one that threatens no response. But, Hajime is beginning to understand regardless. There is no struggle. There is no gasping for breath. The visuals are stimulating, yes, but there is no imminent demise other than within those eyes.

"No. There is no point. Let him go."

" _Why?_ " he yells back, voice now raising dangerously. It cracks on the end sound, weakening. "Just take me out when the time's up--"

They win so quickly that he must hiccup a sob. "There will be punishments for those who do not obey orders."

In dropping his arms, he loses the strength of his entire upper body. He buckles over, digging into his knees for support, and gasps through tears. A new exhaustion has him shivering. His head grows heavy and hot with blood.

The room feels cold as he submits to the ground and crawls into a foetal position.

\--

"Your doctor has changed," says a man with a face far older than his previous doctor. It is shaped by stern lines and prominent cheekbones. "I am now going to be the one monitoring you."

Monitoring, Hajime's head repeats. His previous doctor would refer to it as taking care of. Hajime viewed it as being taken care of, too, if he's very honest.

He continues, and walks into the room where Hajime felt somewhat at home with his previous doctor. "You have been coddled considerably up until this point. But, you aren't here to be a child, so I hope you understand that will have to come to an end." He speaks as though addressing Hajime's thought directly. Monitoring, not taking care of.

So, the boy nods. His fingers idly curl over into the fabric of his sleeves. The hospital bed feels far less like a bed at all when he sits on the edge in such a square position.

He doesn't feel like laying down, or sleeping, like this. Not when his stomach aches to feel some sense of familiarity.

"You failed because you cannot accept your new self," says his new stranger. The man's footsteps clack toward him, and then he halts, so directly before him that he's absolutely sure avoiding eye contact is out of the question. He meets the generic face of a man approaching the latter half of his life. "Do you _understand_ that? You signed up to become the prodigy of this school. The prodigy of this school is not Hinata Hajime."

There is no kind of response that will satisfy Hajime's lips, and so they remain shut. Shame has washed over him. The man is right. There is no argument to be had.

"That said, we regret to inform you that the traumatic experience you endured was the work of your previous doctor, and we apologise for the damage is has caused."

Hajime's lips then part, but not to speak. A shock takes his form, and like a fish, he stares blankly. They took away his previous doctor for doing his job? But, that's not-

"You must have questions," the man says. Irritation creeps into his voice, perhaps because he is faced with a boy that is more doll than boy. "We will answer them if it is necessary to your development, but as it stands, all you need to know is that his experimentation went too far. We did not want to put you through that."

They're making an enemy. They're making a scapegoat, his brain suggests. It is hard to believe that the boy he spent so much time with - the boy, not so many years older than him - would have tried to hurt him. No - it is, if causing harm to Hajime was the goal of the project. But, here this man stands, suggesting that there is no trauma involved in warping Hajime's entire personality to become the saviour of the world.

The pieces don't fit. His brain cannot piece them together.

"Are you going to ask me anything?"

Back in the room, Hajime blinks mindlessly. The irritation blossoms upon the man's face in the form of a creased brow and the snarl of his lips, but it ripples out into nothing. He sighs.

As though eager to leave, he makes quick work of the space between the bed and the door. "Well, you can ring for me anytime. I will be in the building." He pauses at the door. "It's more convenient."

Hajime's eyes have taken his attention to the window. Freshly reminded of the feeling of tears, he realises he's on the edge again. There was a kindness about his previous doctor that seems to have been dragged, screaming, from this room. Now all that remains is the same cool air that a morgue might hold.

A cyst of doom.

"What was his name?" Hajime asks, voice somewhat raw with the sudden volume. His doctor, having been moments from fully passing through the door, now turns to him. Fresh frustration animates his face.

"Your old doctor?"

"Yes."

He sighs again, as though that's all the air in him is good for, and looks to the window Hajime was previously occupied with. "I can't tell you that. It's confidential."

With that, he is able to leave, as Hajime has no more interest in speaking. His gaze drops to the floor, with his gut, and once again his lips part, if only slightly. The momentary hope oozes from him, a sickness residing in its place, and his hands hook over the edge of the bed.

He may never see him again.

\--

That night, Hajime's dreams are haunted.

That itself is not worth noting at such a point, as Hajime's dreams are often between nightmare and night terror. But, they are haunted with his own face, and a boy with wires in his head. There are so many that it may as well be hair, and he can barely move.

He talks to the boy, but the boy does not say that much back. The one sentence Hajime can remember when he wakes is something like, "I'm sorry you had to lose the light of the window."

As though he had greatly insulted him, Hajime strangles him until he dies. The addition of death to the action terrifies him, and he spends the rest of the dream crying.

People ask him where the boy went. Hajime won't tell them. It's his giddy, painful secret. He wakes up scared that somebody will know.

As he stares at his ceiling, he remembers his upcoming punishment, and the fear is lost to his subconscious.

**Author's Note:**

> snzzzz now im sleep
> 
> oh but also i kinda thought the intrusion of fake hajime was matsuda giving hajime the choice to either go along with the project or give into himself and save his own identity? because he saw what they were doing with hajime and the project and was like. "ur destroying a perfectly good hajime is what ur doing. look at him, he has depression"


End file.
